


let's just see what tomorrow brings

by capebretons



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Rivalry, soulmates if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 17:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10791705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capebretons/pseuds/capebretons
Summary: The first time Nolan sees Nico, it snows.It’s the first snow of the winter, late November, cold enough to make Nolan’s cheeks pink, and his ears, and the tip of his nose. It’s the cold, that’s all. It’s got nothing to do with Hischier.





	let's just see what tomorrow brings

The first time Nolan sees Nico, it snows.

It’s the first snow of the winter, late November, cold enough to make Nolan’s cheeks pink, and his ears, and the tip of his nose. It’s the cold, that’s all. It’s got nothing to do with Hischier.

He barely remembers where he is — some CHL thing, probably in Toronto — but he remembers how Hischier looked. Small. Smaller than Nolan. But he was laughing, and there was snow on his hat, his shoulders, and he was talking to a tall French kid Nolan’s never heard of. 

Hischier never saw him. Or, if he did, he never let on. And, back then, it didn’t matter if he did or he didn’t. He was good, sure, but he wasn’t going to crack the top ten, not that June. Nolan would. Nolan knew he would, and that he’d go first too. Duh.

It doesn’t matter, Nolan tells himself, and he looks away. Hischier. Nobody knows who the fuck that is.

Nolan goes back out west the next day, and the tips of his ears are still red.

  
  


He doesn’t really ever think about Hischier, after that. He plays his own game, keeps his head down, and tries to enjoy this year. It’s his last in Brandon, he thinks. Last in the W. He tries to enjoy every second, and that’s — that’s hard, when Nolan can’t stay healthy. As it turns out, his bones are made of spun sugar, and that’s not ideal for a hockey player, evidently.

So it’s a setback. But there’s nobody else, this year, that’ll even come close to his spot. And that’s the only thing that keeps him up with his physical therapy: knowing that he’s got a reserved spot.

(And that’s naive, and Nolan doesn’t know that’s naive until much later. But there’s quite a bit more until then.)

He feels better when he’s cleared, even though he doesn’t, really. It’s an ache, a sting, somewhere deep in him, and he knows it’s the hernia, or maybe it’s something else. He doesn’t care and he can’t name it, because that means someone will have to do something, and he’d really rather that no one else touches him right now, thanks so much.

But then he loses his footing in practice, lands funny, and Kaspick has to help him off the ice. And that’s — Nolan’s fine. Nolan is doing great. He’s still number one, according to the newspaper his billet dad reads, and even though that’s just a newspaper from Brandon, Manitoba, it’s still news. It’s a fact. It’s okay. It’s — it’s fine.

Claguer notices, though, because of course he does. They’re in a movie theater on a Sunday afternoon, which is not really the greatest place to have a teammate heart-to-heart, but it’s not like Nolan would admit that he’s freaking out where other people can clearly see or hear him.

“Who else would go first, though?” Kale asks, voice low under the movie’s dialogue. “Seriously. Yeah, you’re built like Humpty-Dumpty, but—”

“It never says he’s an egg,” Nolan interrupts. “The entire time. Everyone just assumes.”

“That is so genuinely not my point. No one’s calling you an egg, Patty.”

“No, I know, but I just think it’s a little fucked up.”

“You fixate on weird shit when you’re sad.”

“I’m not sad.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“I’m just disappointed.”

“Sound less like a father. People will like you more.”

“People like me fine.”

“You remind people of white bread.”

“Who said that?”

“Nevermind who said that,” Kale says, dismissive. “Seriously. No one else will go first but you. There aren’t any other contenders. All the Europeans are terrible this year.”

“Hischier’s good,” says something in Nolan.

“Hischier,” Kale repeats, sitting back. “I don’t know who that is. Is he French?”

“I don’t think so,” Nolan says, frowning. “German, maybe.”

“Dope,” Kale says, like he’s supposed to be saying,  _ okay, and? _ “You’re still going first.”

And they’re quiet for a minute, watching the screen together in silence, before Nolan finds the right words. “Not if I can’t play,” Nolan says, slow and careful.

Kale knocks his knee against Nolan’s, reassuring, and doesn’t say anything.

  
  


He’s practicing again in a few weeks, with a no-contact jersey and careful hands. He wants to be good again, he wants to prove himself to his team, his league. And Canada calls, which. Yeah. Never a bad thing.

He makes the selection camp for World Juniors, the only undrafted guy there. He feels it again, this tiny little buzz of joy, everything he ever loved and needed from hockey, and it feels  _ right.  _ This is where he’s supposed to be, and it’s, it’s, it’s —

His trainer doesn’t clear him, and Nolan’s not sure he’s ever felt rage before this moment. He’s gone out on the ice and thrown someone to the ground, he’s slammed someone into the boards, and he’s thrown a remote at his older sister’s head, but he’s never been —

This is new. This is quiet, head down, but he feels like he’s filling up with something, red-hot and boiling, and he wants to blame the doctor, he wants to blame Canada, he wants to blame his team, but none of that is quite right. It’s not — it’s him. It’s all Nolan. He’s weaker than he should be. Not enough calcium when he was little. Should’ve had a little more milk, maybe.

So he stays home. And Kale goes, which is fine, because he’s glad someone from Brandon’s going at the least, and happy his best friend is going. But then there’s watching his team, the team he should be with, win and win and win, and finally, lose.

And it’s shitty, and it’s terrible, and he watches it all from his bedroom in Winnipeg. Any given day, he’d be happy to ruin Hart’s game, happy to see Barzal cry, but not here. He feels the loss like it’s his own, because it should have been.

And, because he gets his news from the newspaper, he sees that Nico Hischier is in the number-one-draft-pick spot from his breakfast table the next morning. Nolan feels cold and forgets how to read, catching every third word —  _ spectacular, team, speed, skill, performance, effort. First.   _ Nolan hadn’t watched one game of Switzerland’s, which, apparently, is Hischier’s team. Which, apparently, Hischier had carried through the tournament.

_ First, _ though.

Nolan sets the paper down, very carefully, and goes back to bed.

  
  


They’re getting dinner after practice, the whole team, at a shitty burger place by the university, when Nolan decides it’s okay to ask. The Top Prospects roster was released that day, with Nolan and Nico as captains, and Nolan feels vaguely ill. There is literally no reason for him to feel vaguely ill.

“Did you talk to Hischier at all, in Ontario?” He makes himself ask Claguer, just as Claguer’s taken the world’s largest recorded bite of his veggie burger. 

They both wait a minute while he chews, swallows, and takes a long sip of water. He swallows that, too, then sighs. “No,” he says. “Chabby did, though. Q, you know?”

“Yeah,” Nolan says, even though he doesn’t. “Is he, like — is he cool?”

Kale shrugs. “Probably.”

And Nolan’s not really sure what he wanted out of this conversation, but he does check some 2017 Draft websites before bed. He’s still first, in most of them. 

He’s not sure why it matters, but it does.

  
  


He heads over to Quebec in late January, on the same plane as Stelio. It’s a long flight, and Stels sleeps for most of it, but Nolan hasn’t been able to sleep right in days. He has dreams that he’s late, or that he’s been traded to the Cape Breton, which isn’t even possible, or that he comes fifty-fourth overall. They’re not bad dreams, really. But he wakes up, and his skin is blotchy and he can hear his heartbeat.

They land, and it’s cool, kind of, seeing these people he half-knows. Two guys who follow him on Instagram say hi as he’s lacing up, Morand shoots the shit with him, and he doesn’t see Hischier until he hits the ice.

And, fucking —

Hischier doesn’t even look at him.

And there’s no reason he should be angry, none at all, but  _ Jesus, _ Nolan spends every waking moment thinking about him, and Hischier won’t even look at him.

“You look great,” Stels says to him, flat and sarcastic, even though they’re not technically supposed to be talking, because he’s on the other team. Hischier’s team.

“I feel great,” Nolan replies, because lying is easy.

Stel stops for a second, thinking. “Don’t let him get in your head, okay?” 

Nolan’s head shoots up. “What? No. No. Obviously, no.”

They split up to the teams then, while Nolan’s team does some testing and the other team does some media. It’s easy, drills for speed and agility, stopping on a dime and dodging obstacles. Easy. He’s done it before, he’ll do it a million times again, always proving himself. He knows what’ll happen if he rests easy. 

They switch up a bit later, and Nolan’s team does media. And this, this is the part that feels a little tougher. He’s not the most comfortable guy in person, and it’s even worse in front of a camera. He’s fidgety, he’s bad at eye contact, and he knows he comes off looking blander than white bread. It’s fine. People know what to expect from him. Clipped, short answers, a few cliches when they apply, and an easy quote for the byline. He can’t throw any fancy German in there, and his French is dismal. So. He loses. 

(And there’s his mom’s voice, reminding him that not everything has to be a competition, but moms have been wrong before. Especially moms who aren’t fighting for first every second they step into a rink.)

But the last interview is done, with a young guy working for Oilers, who shakes Nolan’s hands and wishes him the best. And Nolan thinks about McDavid, who probably did this same interview, with this same guy. McDavid, who’s on track to Art Ross. And he thinks about Eichel, who is on track to something else, probably. Honestly, Nolan’s not too sure. Nobody thinks about number-twos all that often.

And then this older guy motions that it’s time for Nolan to pull on his jersey and do his fucking  _ photoshoot _ with fucking Hischier, like this isn’t already so fucking weird and awful.

Nolan takes his time, lacing up slow, foregoing the pads but taking a minute to work on his hair. 

Hischier’s already on the ice when Nolan steps out. The lighting guys are setting up, and Hischier’s skating lazy, loping circles around the goal. Getting familiar.

Nolan feels ill, and skates to his mark.

And he hears Hischier before he sees him, but that’s not even quite right, because it’s more like he just  _ feels _ him, a foot behind, unsure, shifting his balance on his skates.

“Hey,” Hischier says, and his voice is high.

Nolan barely turns his head. “Hey.”

“I’m Nico,” he says, and fuck, this kid’s definitely European.

Nolan blinks. “Nolan.”

“This is pretty crazy, eh?” Hischier skates up, into Nolan’s line of sight. He’s got one ridiculous eyebrow arched, conspiratory, and half a grin on. The way he speaks — it’s a practiced casualness. It sounds almost strange in his accent. The words are words he must have heard from one of the other guys in the Halifax locker room.

“Sure,” Nolan nods, looking down at his skates. He’s blushing. He doesn’t know why he’s blushing.

Hischier looks a little confused, but nods eventually, and skates silently to his mark, opposite Nolan’s at the faceoff. They do a few shots like that, sticks down and eyes on a puck that’s not there, before they’re manipulated around, back-to-back, but not quite touching.

It probably takes an hour. Neither of them say anything else, and when it’s over, Nico’s first off the ice.

 

They’ve got a few hours to kill before the game, and most everybody’s napping or getting lunch. Nolan’s the former, flopped on his stomach on a too-fluffy bed, and he’s just about to pass out when his phone buzzes. 

It’s a text from Stels.  _ Do u want Hisch info or will it fuck w ur head??? _

Honestly, Nolan’s head is already very fucked.  _ What’s up _

There’s a moment of the grey-typing-bubble before Stels hits him with  _ He thinks ur an asshole!! _

Nolan frowns. He didn’t think he was being an asshole.  _ Really? _

_ Yeah _ Stels says. Then, a second later.  _ Prob not on purpose tho patty ur pretty nice _

Nolan frowns deeper. He wasn’t really trying to be nice, either. It’s like that moment before the faceoff, when you’ve got a defender right by you, a guy who’s probably cool, who tries to ask you about your day, or the team, or whether the Jets will make it to the playoffs now that they have Laine. Nolan doesn’t really like talking. He’d rather just — focus.

  
  


The game is. Strange.

And it starts at faceoff, when it’s just the two of them, and the air is crackling around them like fresh lightning, and Nolan will not look at Hischier. Hischier, who’s moving, before the puck drops, skating around a bit, and Nolan is anchored.

“Good luck,” Hischier murmurs, as he settles in.

And Nolan would honestly rather not say anything, but he was raised better than that. Also, Hischier already thinks he’s an asshole. “You too,” he says, and his voice is rough.

Nolan’s used to captaining, but these are different guys, and not all of them like him. Nolan’s dropped gloves with a few of them, hasn’t stopped Kaspick when he trash-talks them. But for the most part, it’s just — it’s a team of  _ amazing _ players. They work, they get pucks deep, and—

He should be psyched, but  _ Hischier.  _ He’s scoring, on the breakaway, and Nolan isn’t. Nolan isn’t. Nolan’s feeding Tippett like crazy, but he’s not getting to the net himself, and that is more frustrating than it should be.

And there’s this one brief moment, and Nolan’s speeding after Hischier who’s speeding after the puck, and they’re heading straight for the boards. And Nolan remembers his three inches and twenty-four pounds he’s got on HIschier, and it would be so easy to stop a little too late, to turn his shoulder, but—

He doesn’t. He stops himself, just enough not to touch Hischier even a little bit, just to breathe a little heavy. 

“Thanks,” Hischier says, breath a little short, and he skates off. Nolan doesn’t, not right away.

Nolan’s team wins it, that day. They break a six-year losing streak. Nolan gets a few assists.

Hischier gets first star.

And then, plan is to get trashed.

They go to some terrible bar in Quebec City, suggested by the most popular Q kid because ID won’t be an issue, and Nolan watches as Matthew Strome just — deteriorates. Yamamoto and Glass set up flip cup on a table near the bathroom, which seems like poor planning.

Nolan holds his beer, talks a little bit to Comtois, listens to the loop of The Hip on the bar’s speakers, and watches as Hischier leads Stels into a booth, just the two of them. They sit on the same side, heads cocked together, speaking quietly. Hischer traces a finger over the condensation on his beer, careful and slow, and Nolan has to look away.

He’s not — this isn’t  _ jealousy.  _ Seriously. Stels is likeable. Of course Hischier wants to sit in a dark booth and whisper to him. Stels isn’t anything like Nolan. If Hischier wanted stilted conversation and blushing, Nolan’s his guy, but. No. Not even gonna go there. This is so — this is the stupidest thing ever. He doesn’t even like Hischier, not even in the conversational way. So. Sure. If Hischier wants to lead Stels back out of this booth, and into his hotel room, play on, player. Whatever. Nolan’s got a flight in the morning. He’d rather not be cranky from staying up all night.

(It even sounds like a lie when he’s thinking it.)

Nolan leaves before he thinks about doing anything else. 

  
  


He doesn’t get a good night’s sleep anyway. He wakes up a little after four, with a deep, wrenching pain in his stomach. His first thought is  _ herniaherniahernia,  _ but it’s — it isn’t. It hurts like something else, hurts like rejection, or like disappointment, or like. Longing.

  
  


Stels looks refreshed when he meets Nolan at the airport. Nolan does not.

“Jesus Christ, Patty,” Stels says as they go through security. “Did you go home with someone?”

“No,” he says, flat.

“You look like you got hit by a bus,” Stels says, and hands his ticket to the guy at the desk. “Are you sure you didn’t? I won’t tell.”

Nolan hands his ticket over, too, while also glaring. “I didn’t. Did you?”

Stels shrugs. “I like ‘em foreign, what can I say?”

“That’s nasty,” Nolan says, and his heart dips.

“French girls are crazy, let me be the first to tell you,” Stels says brightly, and takes his ticket back. Nolan’s heart beats again, and he wills himself to be cool.

Nolan takes his ticket, too. “Good luck this June, Mr. Patrick,” the security guy says brightly.

“Thank you,” Nolan says blandly, because that’s kind of just how you say it, when this happens.

  
  


When he gets back home in Brandon, he has a text from a number he doesn’t know.  _ Good job this weekend,  _ it reads.  _ Wish we could have talked more. _

Nolan throws his phone.

(Well, it’s not really  _ throwing _ when you’re lying down in bed and it falls on your face, but. Still.) 

_ Who is this, _ he types back with shaking thumbs, though he already knows, really.

_ Nico Hischier, _ comes not a minute later.  _ This is Nolan, right? I got your number from Stelios. _

_ Yeah, this is Nolan,  _ Nolan writes back, and Nico doesn’t respond until hours later, when Nolan’s brushing his teeth. It’s gotta be way late in Halifax.

_ See you soon. _

 

They don’t speak again, not for a long while. But it’s weird, because — well, it shouldn’t be, it really, definitely shouldn’t be, but Nolan’s got Hischier’s name in his phone, and sometimes he pulls up his contact and just stares at it, memorizes the order of the twos, ones, and sixes, and thinks of calling him.

Sometimes, he  _ wants _ to call him.

And when he tells Claguer as much, on a bus ride to Regina, it’s all about how he just wants someone to talk to about all of this. He wants to know if he’s anxious, if he even cares about going first, if any of this even matters to him. Nolan doesn’t know what it’s like not to  _ live _ this, to wake up every morning and think of ice under his feet. Nolan wants to know if Nico loves it like he does, if he yearns like he does.

Claguer blinks at him. “You are a still fucking water, Patrick. You run deep.”

Nolan blinks back. “I do?”

Kale nods, vehement. “Oh, yes.”

Nolan sits back in his seat, stares out in front of him blandly. “Oh.”

Kale makes a disbelieving noise, and they’re quiet again, eyes out the window. 

And maybe an hour passes before Claguer says anything else. 

“You should call him.”

  
  


The Pats kick Wheat King ass, and no one’s really in the mood to talk, after that. It’s snowing too hard to head back to Manitoba, so they stay in a Travelodge for the night, to wait it out. After a good half hour of moping, some guys congregate in the hallway to play some card game, and Nolan would usually join in, but Nolan’s going to make a phone call, actually, thanks for asking.

It’s only until Hischier picks up that it’s about two in the morning, in Halifax.

“Hi?” Comes the groggy response, voice sticky and rough.

“Shit, sorry,” Nolan rushes, and pushes a hand through his hair, which is usually quite soothing, but is really, really not.

“Nolan?” Hischier asks, sounding vaguely more awake. “Is this — did you call me by accident?”

“No, no, no,” Nolan says, and this is already more talking than he planned on doing, which feels stupid now, because he’s the one who called Hischier, and what the fuck did he expect? “This is on purpose.”

“Oh,” Hischier says, and there’s the sound of some shifting and rustling, and he’s sitting up in bed, and Nolan has a weird thought where he wonders if Hischier sleeps shirtless, which feels not at all germane to the conversation. “Hi, then.”

“Hi,” Nolan says, and his breathing feels wrong. “I forgot about time difference.”

“It’s okay,” Hischier says, and  _ his _ breath is audible, soft. “How are you?”

“I’m — good,” Nolan says, which, yeah, probably true. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “A little tired, maybe.”

Nolan shouldn’t, but he laughs. Hischier laughs, too.

The laughter dies, and they’re quiet for a minute, and Nolan tries not to lose himself in Hischier’s breathing. “Are you — do you get nervous?” Nolan blurts out, just to keep from saying something else.

“About?” Hischier begins, and Nolan recognizes what he’s doing, he’s doing the same thing Nolan  _ always _ does — he’s pretending he has no idea what’s going to happen in June, pretends all he’s thinking about is tomorrow’s game, pretends like this isn’t the rest of his career, the rest of his life. Hischier’s playing the same game, always has been.

And then, because it’s Nolan, and because Hischier must know all of this already, he drops it.

“Yes,” he says, and he sounds scared.

It shouldn’t be such a relief.

“Okay,” Nolan breathes out, shaky, and he nods to himself. “Okay, good.”

It startles a laugh out of Hischier. “Good?”

“It  _ is _ good,” Nolan says, because he doesn’t need to lie right now.

They talk for another hour or so, before Hischier reminds him that he’s got practice tomorrow, and Nolan’s got a long bus ride home. 

“I can sleep,” Nolan tries, because he doesn’t want to be done yet.

“I can’t,” Hischier says, laughing. “We play Saint John next weekend.”

“Chabby’s a tough one,” Nolan nods, belatedly realizing Hischier cannot actually see him. 

“I get flashbacks to World Juniors whenever I see him,” Hischier says easily. “Unfun.”

And then they talk for another hour, until Nolan’s the one who starts getting tired, and Hischier’s all annoyed, but not actually annoyed. He wouldn’t be laughing so much if he was actually annoyed.

  
  


Nolan sleeps the entire bus ride home, and calls Nico again that night.

  
  


They talk almost every day, now. About stupid shit, too, not only the Big Stuff. Sometimes not even hockey at all, just about Nolan’s sisters, or Nico’s hometown, or whatever bullshit Kaspick was spouting in the locker room that day. Nolan learns a little German, and Nico’s English gets a little bit better, and altogether, it’s a pretty beneficial friendship.

Nolan wishes he didn’t want to kiss him, but he does.

It didn’t happen right away — it was slow, he promises. And it probably happened underneath all those nights he spent Googling him, going through every article he could find, which isn’t romantic or cute, but neither is Nolan, and that’s kind of okay, he thinks.

It’s just kind of inconvenient, is all.

  
  


New Jersey or Philadelphia. Okay.

  
  


He has a long talk with his dad, after the lottery. They talk about how those are both two  _ good _ teams, and that this season was, most likely, a blip. And secretly, Nolan was hoping for Dallas, but these — these are good. And Nico calls him, after he gets off the phone with his own parents, and they both do some really chill Googling, and there’s only an hour and a half of road between them. That’s — that’s not bad at all. Same conference. They’ll see a lot of each other.

  
  


“I think you’d like Philly,” Nico teases, one night.

“Where’d you learn to call it ‘Philly?’” Nolan shoots back, grinning. “You fucking foreigner.”

“I watch TV, sometimes.”

“I’m very happy to hear that, Nico.”

“Fuck yourself, Nolan.”

“You’re gonna look so bad in orange,” Nolan grins, and wonders when it got to be okay for him to joke about going first, instead of wringing his hands about it.

  
  


They both stop talking when it’s clear there’s no path to the Mem. Nolan misses him, which isn’t really that surprising. Nolan checks his Instagram almost compulsively whenever he has a free minute, which isn’t often. His agent is texting him constantly, telling him to pretty much clear his schedule for all of June, because he’s going to be doing Draft Things, which will be. Something. 

Once, he and Kale had watched those videos of all the top 2015s in the Everglades, and he’d heard from Duber about the dumb shit they had to do at Niagara Falls. None of it sounded all that fun — team building exercises, even though none of them would be on the same team next year. 

And then Nico sends him a  _ hey,  _ and really, this might not be that bad, you know?

And then Nolan calls him, puts him on speakerphone while he plays Call of Duty, and they talk circles around each other. Nothing in particular, really, just kind of — stuff. Nico’s trying to see if he has time to go home for a weekend, just to see his friends before shit hits the fan. 

“Come see me,” Nolan says, and his voice is too high to call it a joke.

Nico laughs, breezy. “Yeah, okay, Nolan.”

“What?” Nolan says, and his anxious laugh gets caught in his throat, so it kind of sounds more like a cough.

“Winnipeg’s a hole.”

“Yeah?” It startles Nolan back into normalcy. “ _ Du _ bist ein… how do you say ‘hole’ in German?”

“You can look that up on Google Translate, I think. I know that’s how you passed French.”

Nolan spends a good thirty seconds trying to think of a way to insult him in French, but comes up blank. “Fuck off,” is what he settles on.

“And to think, just a minute ago, you were inviting me to come  _ sleep  _ in your _ bed.” _

Nolan almost coughs up his fucking lung. “That was never on the table, Hisch,” he manages, even though — yeah, a little bit. “We make guests sleep on the sofa in the Patrick household.”

“The Patrick household,” Nico repeats. “You good Canadian boy. Did you have a rink in your backyard? Spend your summers at the lake? Get all excited for Roll-Up-The-Rim?”

“Get fucked,” Nolan laughs. The game is long paused, the controller tossed to the other side of the sofa. He’s got two hands on his phone now, too careful. “What does that make you? Did you live up in the Alps? Ski to school? I bet you ate a lot of chocolate before you had a big, fancy diet plan, didn’t you?”

“You spend a lot of time thinking about my idyllic childhood, Patty?”

“Oof,  _ idyllic.  _ Big word for a little kid.”

“I’m six-foot, Nolan.”

“According to some websites.”

“How much time do you spend Googling me, exactly?”

“Too much.”

  
  


Chicago comes quick. And it’s all a bit blurred, and Nolan barely has time to think. He hardly even sees Nico at the combine, which is so weird, because when he does, they’re across the room, and all they can do is wave. He wants to hug him, which is weird in itself, because Nolan’s not a hugger, not even a little bit.

But he waves. And he sees Nico smile, and he sees Nico turn a little pink, and he sees Nico wave back. And right now — that’s — that feels like enough.

“You have a crush on him, Patty?” Nick Suzuki teases, which feels weird, because Nolan has never met Nick Suzuki, but Nick Suzuki seems like he’s only kidding. Okay.

“For sure,” Nolan says, because he’s not sure what’s happening here.

Nick Suzuki laughs.

  
  


And then suddenly, Nico is everywhere.

He’s pressed up against Nolan’s side as they do the same interviews, asking them if they’re nervous, if they want Philly more than Jersey, if it matters at all — like either of their agents would let them be honest. And it’s bland as always, but now there’s  _ Nico, _ and Nolan’s not sure how anything could ever be bland again, not with Nico here.

They do all the top prospect stuff, with Gabe and Michael and Cody and sometimes Nick Suzuki, who definitely notices how much Nico and Nolan whisper to each other, but to Nick Suzuki’s credit, he doesn’t say anything.

Nolan’s honestly not sure he would care if Nick Suzuki said anything at all. Nico is bright and funny and  _ beautiful,  _ and his eyebrows make Nolan laugh, and Nolan — God, Kale was right. Nolan  _ is  _ a still water. He didn’t know he could run this deep.

They’re about to do their last interview together before they head back to the hotel, before they try and get a good night’s sleep before they have to stand up, on international television, and put on a jersey and a ballcap. And the two of them, they’ve been sitting in these same chairs for hours, trying not to laugh at each other whenever one of them says _I’d be happy just to get picked,_ or something along the lines of _it’s an amazing organization,_ _I’d be lucky to play for them._

The reporter’s settling in when Nico leans over, whispers, “I will give you my first NHL paycheck if you tell him you want to go to the Avalanche,” and pulls away with a grin.

Nolan bursts out laughing, and the entire room looks at him funny.

Nolan doesn’t say anything about the Avalanche, but Nico still says he’ll pay for dinner.

  
  


Nico does pay for dinner, at a nice place not too far from the hotel. And Nolan’s not a _huge_ dick, so he doesn’t order the lobster. He does get steak, though.

They begged off their families this time, both promising to meet them at breakfast, bright and early. Nico’s mother has, apparently, heard all about Nolan, which is strange, but only because it makes Nolan a little nervous. Not bad nervous. Just. Like. He kind of only wants to know what Nico said.

Anyway. Nico gets a salad.

“Summer diet already,” Nolan says, arching his eyebrows as he cuts into his steak. “Power move.”

Nico grins at him. “It’s weird to  _ see _ you make fun of me. Hearing it feels different.”

Nolan’s chewing, otherwise he’d grin back. He does talk with his mouth full, though. “I made fun of you in Quebec.”

Nico shrugs and spears an arugula leaf. “You were being a dick in Quebec. You’re not being a dick now.”

“Was I actually?” Nolan grins, but it’s not very strong. He tries to think back, all the way to January. All he remembers is feeling sick. “Sorry, man.”

“Yeah, actually,” Nico’s grinning too, but it shines different than before. “I remember asking Stelios if you hated me. He said yeah.”

Nolan laughs, shocked and loud. “Dude, seriously?”

Nico shrugs. “I mean, I didn’t know. I’ve met a few guys like you. I know you’re competitive.”

Nolan almost wants to roll his eyes, but evidently he already comes off like a dick, so why add fuel to the fire? “Hisch, you’re competitive, too.”

“I know that,” Nico shrugs. “I don’t know. I just knew you really,  _ really _ wanted to go first.”

And Nolan pauses for a second, lets it hang there in the air in front of them, because yeah, he really did want to go first. He used to  _ know _ he’d go first. And that mattered to him, a lot. Still matters to him. But.

The waiter comes, clears the plates, and takes Nico’s card. They don’t say much, not for a long while, not until they’ve gotten up from the table and taken a few laps around the city outside, with the sun low overhead.

“I still do,” Nolan says suddenly, startling himself, and he shrugs, because hopefully that makes this seem a little more casual. “Want to go first, I mean. But it was easier to want it when I didn’t know you.”

Nico’s paying close attention, leaned forward with focused, wide eyes. He looked the same taking the faceoff at Top Prospects. “Was it?”

Nolan nods. “Yeah. You were like — this distant, faraway thing, and it was easier to want it.” He pauses again, because choosing the right words has always been important. “But I know you now, and that’s — I want it for you. Not as much as I want it for me, obviously, but if you went to New Jersey, I’d probably be okay with it in the morning.”

Nico doesn’t say anything. He just nods, thoughtful, and Nolan picks up again. 

“I remember the first time I read that you’d go first. It was after World Juniors, and I was home, and injured, and sad.”

Something in Nico’s shoulders quivers, lets out. “I wanted you there. I wanted you playing.”

Nolan snorts. “Me, too.”

Nico doesn’t smile. “I’m serious. I wanted to see you.”

Nolan rolls his eyes, looks over at Nico, stopped next to him as they wait to cross the street. “You didn’t even know me.”

And Nico — Nico looks up at him, eyes full of Something, and says, “I wanted to.”

Nolan doesn’t know how to speak.

  
  


It’s too quiet in the lobby of the hotel. Nico’s too quiet. And Nolan knows what he was trying to say. He does know. He’s not — he’s not — he wants to say something  _ right, _ when his hands aren’t shaking so much, when he doesn’t almost feel sick to his stomach with  _ want,  _ when looking at Nico doesn’t feel like getting hit by a fucking train.

He’s not sure that day’s ever gonna come.

So they’re at the elevator door, and it’s quiet, and Nico’s head is bowed, and this, this — this can’t wait.

“I like you,” Nolan blurts out, and it actually makes Nico start. “A lot. I’ve probably liked you since Top Prospects, even though I probably hated you then, too. And I like talking to you. I like knowing what you think about. I like being around you. You make it — easier.”

Nico blinks at him, once, twice, before turning completely, reaching up to put a careful hand on the back of Nolan’s neck, and pull him down. 

Nolan’s heart is beating so fast that he doesn’t have time to process it, process  _ any _ of it, so he just pulls Nico closer by the waist, and then pulls them both into the empty, waiting elevator. And then Nico’s back is against the wall, and Nolan’s not sure which of them slams the button to close the door, but they do it. And—

Kissing Nico Hischier is still a competition. Who can make the other shake, who can pull the other closer.

Nolan doesn’t care who wins this one.

“I like you,” Nico says, whenever his mouth is free. His voice is soft, his breath is short, and Nolan wants to bury himself in this. “I really  — I like you, and I — I have, for a long time—”

“Keep talking,” is all Nolan says, all Nolan  _ can _ say, because he doesn’t want anything else.

  
  


They spend the next hour and a half making out in a bathroom stall, because it’s well after midnight, and they both have roommates, and doing this kind of thing in public is most likely frowned upon. 

  
  


They don’t see much of each other, that next morning. They spend a lot of time with family, then some more time with media. Nolan watches an episode of  _ Lost  _ with his older sister before he has to shower and put his suit on.

Nico texts him a thumbs up, as Nolan’s just about to leave for the United Center. Nolan texts back with one devil emoji. 

_ Fuck you,  _ Nico says, but Nolan knows he’s smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to everyone who cheered me on for this! it means so much more than you know.
> 
> i have a pretty limited idea on the life of a pre-draft nhl player, so, like. grain of salt.
> 
> title is from the hip's "wheat kings."
> 
> my twitter is @jdrouins if you wanna hang out!


End file.
